


aegri somnia

by randomtuna13 (belindarimbi13)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, M/M, Surreal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-12
Updated: 2019-09-12
Packaged: 2020-10-17 08:51:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20618312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/belindarimbi13/pseuds/randomtuna13
Summary: Sometimes, one day is not enough. Two days are insufficient. Three days are less than they should deserve. Four days need to be extended. But Crowley couldn't bring himself to arrive at Friday.He hated Friday.





	aegri somnia

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer & Note:**
> 
>   * Good Omens is a novel by Terry Pratchett and Neil Gailman, adapted into a TV series by BBC and Amazon Prime and directed by Douglas MacKinnon.
> 
>   * The author does not take material profits by writing this fanfiction.

Sometimes, one day is not enough. Two days are insufficient. Three days are less than they deserve. Four days need to be extended. But Crowley couldn't bring himself to arrive at Friday.

He hated Friday.

Aziraphale once asked him why, but Crowley would dodge the question, and opted to not answer. He was and still is, the king of denial, the lord of avoiding the real problems.

He hated Friday.

_But, my dear ... for what reason?_

_For reasons you should never know._

Crowley loved—still love and would love Aziraphale, but he disliked how the angel meddle on things the way they should be. Crowley hated Friday, end of discussion. Why would he need to elaborate the reason?

There were seven days in a week. But it would be only four, because Crowley hated Friday and he hated the following days after it. Friday, Saturday, and Sunday didn't exist in his metaphorical calendar—metaphorical, because having calendar meant he would be keeping track of the time and keeping track of time meant that he would know nobody agreed on the whole 'one week has four days' of his version.

He did not and would never own a calendar for that reason.

_No, I'm not happy, it didn't answer my previous question, Crowley. Why would you hate Friday? Even going bit too far by hating the rest of the weekend as well?_

_Because._

Because what, Crowley thought Aziraphale didn't need to know that. And he should definitely stop asking the same, similar questions. Because, guess what! Crowley would never give him the answer he wanted—needed.

So it was Monday and it was a very nice day.

Nice day as in, _"the sun would shine bright, no clouds in sight, no potential rain, definitely the best weather for outdoor activity"_ kind of nice day. Aziraphale was slightly obsessed with the weather forecast. He tuned diligently to catch _Our Weather Today with Barry Parker_ in the radio. Which was too early for Crowley's taste. But he wouldn't complain, as long as Aziraphale let him laying his head on the angel's lap.

It was Monday and it was a very nice day, so they went for picnic.

Aziraphale loved to dine at The Ritz, but he said there was nothing that could beat sitting on the blanket on the grass outside and watching the ducks. They would eat from their basket, and shred some sandwiches to feed the ducks.

It was very cliché, but it was nice.

_I would never get bored with this._

And so would Crowley.

How could he if Aziraphale loved it?

Next day, that would be Tuesday.

Tuesday was the day when they would wander around to find new restaurant and try new foods. They would visit the rarest restaurant and order everything they haven't tried from its menu. It was wonderful experience. Though, if Crowley was to be honest, sometimes it was nightmare. Just because he was a demon, didn't mean he hadn't got any taste bud. Some foods were just plain terrible, no matter how people justified it.

_It is not abomination! I quite like the unique combination between—_

_It's Hell, angel._

_I beg to differ. In fact, I would classify this dish into Heaven category._

_This is why I fell._

_CROWLEY!_

Aziraphale would pout and look away. The fall of Crowley would still be a touchy subject. At least for the angel. Crowley thought it was hilarious and he loved to joke about that. What else he could do, if it wasn't laughing it off? Crowley couldn't cry over his ripped grace and broken halo any more. He had been doing it, been there, done that. Aziraphale wouldn't understand that it was better to not treat it too seriously, because the other option was to mourn it.

Crowley hated mourning.

And that was why, when Wednesday came, he would spend his energy to be happy about it. Wednesday was the last nice day. But hey, didn't Crowley have four days in his metaphorical calendar? Yeah, and haven't you heard about Sunday, the day before Monday? Wednesday would feel like Saturday for Crowley. It was possibly the last nice day that he could spend without thinking about tomorrow. And what would be the best way to spend the Wednesday?

Movie time.

Sometime, they went out. To movie theatre (or to ballet recital, classical concerts, or anything—not necessarily relate to movie when they went out). When they didn't, they would snuggle under a mountain of thick blankets after finishing off a glass of wine and dinner. Aziraphale would make his infamous marshmallow-chocolate in big mugs and they would enjoy it in front of the television. They could watch anything. From movies to cartoons. They were not picky. And movie time was only slightly misleading, because they were now watching one.

_I would want to watch the time-traveller Doctor again _ _after this one._

_Doctor Who?_

_I can't remember the title, or the doctor's name. We were busy the last time we put that on._

_I wonder why._

_You know why._

_Do I?_

_Crowley, don't. I'm trying to see what will happen to Harry Potter this time._

_I can give you spoilers._

_No._

But it was Wednesday and nobody won on that day except Crowley. Aziraphale would never know what happened in Harry Potter or remember who the Doctor was.

Because, Thursday was inevitable. They could have their snuggle time every night and extra snuggle plus cocoa in Wednesday, but Thursday was the day when Crowley would stick to Aziraphale like a stamp. They would repeat the same boring routine, mundane things. What would humans do? Washing clothes, cooking meals, cleaning the rooms, shopping for daily needs? Yes.

Only Crowley would be extra impatient doing them.

_C'mon, let's get out of here._

_But the clerk is trying to find the snow-patterned quilt I've been looking for._

_Fine, ... WE NEED TO GO, THERE'S EMERGENCY!_

_Crowley! What are you doing!_

_WE'LL COME BACK LATER!_

_Crowley!_

_THANK YOU FOR YOUR HOSPITALITY! C'mon!_

_No, I don't—CROWLEY! Ugh, PLEASE KEEP THE QUILT FOR ME!_

But Aziraphale wouldn't get the quilt. He would not even remember going to the store. Thursday would be the day when Aziraphale would be super mouthy about everything, just like Crowley would be extremely impatient. He would grumble about Crowley distracting him when <strike> they</strike>he did the laundry. He would comment how their dishes were lacking of several spices when they both know, they could just miracle it from the cookbook (and to be fair, their meals were fine). Aziraphale would complain how Crowley always let his things scattered around, how he would make Crowley clean the house and the bookshop the next day he stayed—

It was Thursday, twelve minutes to midnight when Aziraphale looked up at the demon who cuddled him. Crowley closed his eyes but he hadn't slept yet.

He might look serene, but his breathing was laboured as if he was waiting for a nightmare to come, as if he was waiting for the worst.

Aziraphale would never know that Crowley was afraid of—

_Crowley,_ he said in soft voice. _Where is my bookshop?_

—his questions.

This night, Aziraphale asked about the bookshop.

Other night, Aziraphale would ask about a witch friend he<strike>they</strike> once knew.

Another night, Aziraphale would wonder if they ever had a child or children, boy or two boys.

It was Thursday.

It was not always on Thursday, but mostly on Thursday.

And Friday would come and Saturday and Sunday and there would be no answer. And there would never be. Everything would repeat itself, with slight variations: different picnic destination, different shows, different movies, different stores.

Aziraphale would still end up asking questions.

Crowley didn't even bother to extend the pocket universe, the timeloop he created, to cover the whole week. The post-Thurday would be blank, white canvas waiting to be filled with memories, but Crowley still wouldn't <strike> be able to </strike> do it.

Because Friday was the day Crowley lost Aziraphale. So he hated Friday. He hated to spend the rest of the week, knowing Aziraphale was gone. The angel didn't even fall. He was murdered, killed, assassinated, discorporated, whatever the term was it—didn't change the fact that Aziraphale was gone.

Their domestic life was a carbon-copy of Crowley's <strike> dreams</strike>memories. He couldn't bring Aziraphale back, so he resurrected him in his mind, in this little world.

The world where they were okay. The world where they had nothing to worry about. The world where they could be having picnic and going to the theatre and watching movies and shopping for quilts.

The world where Crowley would kiss the shadow of his angel's lips, to touch the angel's dust, and to be happy.

Because he lived and Aziraphale did not, what options there were left?

He could plunge a knife straight to his heart, but he wouldn't die.

He could drown in a bathtub of holy water, and maybe he would.

Just one thing—when the demons died, did they also go to the place where the angels died?

Crowley would be sure of his firm 'no' answer.

So here he was. With a memory of Aziraphale. Living the remains days until the inevitable doomsday. Could be decades, could be years, could be months.

Or weeks.

There were seven days in a week. But it would be only four, because Crowley hated Friday and he hated the following days after it.

He hated Friday.

Aziraphale once asked him why, but Crowley would dodge the question, and opted to not answer. He was and still is, the king of denial, the lord of avoiding the real problems.

He hated Friday.

_But, my dear ... for what reason?_

_For reasons you should never know._

<strike> _For reasons you would, you could never understand._ </strike>

**fin.**

**Author's Note:**

> > **ae·gri** ** som·nia**
>> 
>> (_latin._) a sick man's dreams (from Horace, Ars Poetica, 7; loosely, "troubled dreams").
>> 
>> Aziraphale discorporated on Friday.  

> 
> This should be posted on September 10th, the day I joined AO3. But life happens.
> 
> This story is an extended version of my idle daydream: _what if Aziraphale really died and Crowley created a timeloop to 'resurrect' his angel?_
> 
> I have written [this Crowley's-centered story](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20180815/) if you want to lessen the angst.
> 
>   



End file.
